Blog Calendar
    September    
2008
SMTWTFS
 
1
2
3
4
5
6
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Archive RSS
About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write. Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground. Kiya's gift. I love it!
Green Peas at Stake
Free Photo


"The astonished muse finds thousands at her side." *Laugh**Laugh*
R. W. Emerson

I made this poetry journal because I like to play with words and lines and I wanted to put somewhere some of my practice work (or first draft) in verse, written--within a very short time, probably daily on the spur of the moment, with the idea to work on the entries later--with or without the help of the astonished (should I say shocked?) muse. *Laugh**Laugh*


Some of the haiku I have mixed with senryu, not only because I am not a purist, but also because I like to do what I like to do given what I feel at the moment.



September 7, 2008 at 8:48pm
September 7, 2008 at 8:48pm
#605919
Everything grows on me, growing up.
To begin with, those story ideas--
shedding their chrysalis,
thoughts that sigh--finding no solution.
Then, the little boy next door
who is a man now, the population
of this town bringing poetry
and repulsion, and the tyranny
of shadows from each day
of so many years. My reflection
in the glass…so funny!
Who bent that many lines
on my face
like buried tributaries and
made moments flee
like obscene gestures?
Hard to believe…
Today, even Google turned ten.



September 7, 2008 at 8:45pm
September 7, 2008 at 8:45pm
#605918
The ant in the milk
didn’t go in there
by chance. Dissatisfied
with its lot, it
focused on the spilling
universe of white
in the glass. How paltry
that desire seems now,
when the ant is fighting
for breath?
Luckily, a wooden pick
comes to its rescue,
from the hand of one
who seeks nothing
after a thousand or more
such drownings.

September 7, 2008 at 6:04pm
September 7, 2008 at 6:04pm
#605895
Fickle moon
feeds the aloneness in you,
shining on flower beds, creeks,
waterfalls, springs,
hills, crypts, and boulders
to make everything sparkle
only to lose them
in an instant
to their shadows.

Proud though on its own,
just a rock thrust in heavens
by titans spuming fire,
it lulls you with night breezes
to make you shimmer
inside what you are not.


© Copyright 2013 Joy-the Harpy Witch (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Joy-the Harpy Witch has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

... powered by: Writing.Com
Online Writing Portfolio * Creative Writing Online